#tmnt 2014

[chadobi]

I don’t know why, but I’ve always pictured Raphael with an artistic S/O - like, genuinely. And I’ve never seen anyone write a one-shot or fanfic in that style before, so I decided to do it myself, haha!

“Color Me Real”

Bayverse Raphael x Reader

There was a chill in the air tonight. Not the kind that made you shiver, exactly—just enough to bite at your fingers and make you exhale a little slower, like your breath needed time to catch up with your thoughts.

You had the radio playing low, the studio heater on its last leg, and a cup of coffee you’d forgotten about long enough for it to go lukewarm.

Another night, another canvas.

Your hands were already stained in cerulean blue and burnt umber, fingernails crusted with dried paint you hadn’t bothered to scrub out. You stood barefoot on the drop cloth, one brush clenched in your teeth while the other moved in smooth, practiced strokes. You didn’t even notice how your shoulder had started to ache from the angle. The world narrowed until it was just you, the canvas, and the weight in your chest you were trying to turn into color.

That’s how Raphael found you.

Not that you were surprised. He wasn’t exactly stealthy when he didn’t want to be—too heavy, too big. And besides, you knew the way his presence shifted the room before you ever heard a sound. You didn’t turn around right away. Didn’t need to.

“You just gonna hover again or are you gonna come in this time?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the clink of metal as he stepped through the cracked storage door.

“I ain’t hoverin’,” he said, but his voice lacked any bite. “Just checkin’ in.”

You finally turned, brush still in hand. “Mhm. And how long have you been ‘checkin’ in’ from the shadows?”

He gave you a look, one brow cocked under his red mask. “Long enough.”

You chuckled, stepping aside to make room near the space heater. “Well, grab a crate. Heat’s dying, but it’s doing what it can.”

Raphael hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he lowered himself onto an overturned milk crate. You noticed he looked tired—tension clinging to his shoulders like it always did, but his eyes were softer tonight. More alert.

“Rough patrol?” you asked, dipping your brush back into the palette.

“Not really. Just… noisy. Y’know?”

You nodded. You did.

The city had a way of feeling loud even when it wasn’t. The buzz of lives you couldn’t live, streets you didn’t quite belong to. It wore on you in a way you couldn’t explain, and sometimes it helped to sit in silence next to someone who got it without asking you to explain.

“Paintin’ helps with that?” he asked.

You glanced at the canvas—still unfinished, but it was coming together. It was darker than your usual style. Moody, abstract. Like a cityscape caught in a dream. The brush strokes weren’t perfect. Neither were you.

“It doesn’t fix anything,” you said honestly. “But it’s the only way I can make sense of stuff sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes flicking over the layers of color. “Looks real good.”

You laughed, a tired sound. “You say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s always true.”

There was no sarcasm, no teasing. Just a simple, matter-of-fact tone that made you go still for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said, a little quieter this time.

You didn’t remember exactly when your friendship with Raphael had become a constant. You’d met through April—just another weird night in the city, another impossible story. The turtles had been a curiosity at first. Now they were something else entirely. Family, maybe. Or something close to it.

Still, Raph wasn’t an easy read. He didn’t open up unless he wanted to, and when he did, it was like watching a dam crack one sliver at a time.

He spoke again after a while. “That one from last week—the alley with the steam vents—what was that about?”

You blinked. “You remember that one?”

“’Course I do. It stuck with me. Looked like somethin’ I’ve seen before.”

Your stomach fluttered, unexpectedly.

“I painted that after you told me about your run-in in Hell’s Kitchen,” you admitted.

Raphael looked over sharply. “Seriously?”

You shrugged. “You described the way the steam caught the moonlight. It stayed in my head. So I painted it.”

He was quiet. Then: “Didn’t think you were really listenin’.”

“I always listen to you.”

Another beat of silence.

Something shifted.

His gaze lingered on you, heavy but not unwelcome. He wasn’t looking at your painting anymore. He was looking at you.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Bullshit,” you said gently.

He exhaled through his nose, a rough sound that almost passed for a laugh.

“I dunno,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you ever look at somethin’ and it hits you, all at once, that it means more than you thought?”

You paused, brush frozen midair.

“Yeah,” you said, heart suddenly thudding in your ears. “All the time.”

His eyes met yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“You’re different,” he said quietly. “Not ‘cause you paint. Not ‘cause you don’t freak out ‘round us. Just… you see things other people don’t.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not right away. So you looked at your hands—stained with paint and calloused from years of holding brushes too tightly.

“I think maybe you do too,” you said.

The air between you settled, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said before.

Then he stood, slowly. You looked up.

“I should go,” he said. But he didn’t move.

You gave him a tired smile. “Back to the chaos?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

Another pause. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, without warning, reached out and gently touched a smear of paint on your jaw. His thumb brushed your skin, slow and unthinking.

“You got somethin’,” he murmured.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He let his hand fall away, but not before his fingers lingered just a second too long.

Then he nodded once, pulled his hood over his head, and stepped into the night without another word.

You watched him go, heart hammering.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t touch the painting again.

Because the feeling—whatever had passed between you and him—was already finished.

And some things, you realized, were better left in real life than trapped on a canvas.

[stellaspectral]

I'm gonna come in anonymously eith a bayverse request and ask if maybe you'd be willing to do something where April has this very dorky, emotional, and sweet friend that doesn't know about the turtles. And one day she's supposed to be gone for the night on a date, so the guy's come to hang out and just as Donnie goes to throw his shoes by the door he runs chest to nose with her? Turns out her date was awful, she's giving up on dating, being dramatic about going into a convent. And now there's these guys in her's and April's apartment, and oh god the Purple one is cute, and they have matching glasses- maybe she won't give up entirely!

If this isn't up your ally that's fine! I've really been enjoying your stuff though!

A/N: Ohmigosh, this is such a cute request! 😍

I set this roughly between the first and second movies, since the turtles’ existence is common knowledge to the public by the time Out of the Shadows is over. Enjoy! 💖

Shell Shocked and Smitten (fluff)

💜 Bayverse Donatello/Female Reader 💜

CWs: Bad date aftermath, mild angst, fluff, brief emotional upset, some swearing, unexpected guests, dorks with crushes who flirt, light brotherly teasing. All characters are aged-up.

You trudge up the stairs to your shared apartment.

Your date had been, to put it mildly, a dumpster fire. Chad (of course his name is Chad!) spent an hour talking about his cutting-edge crypto portfolio, then his CrossFit routine. And finally, when the bill arrived, he’d patted his pockets with performative dismay, claiming he forgot his wallet. So you were stuck paying an amount you couldn’t afford.

And on top of it all, you lost one of your contacts in the taxi on the way home. Thankfully, you had your glasses in your purse. But your eyes had watered. And the cheap drugstore mascara—the one you bought on a whim because the packaging was sparkly—is definitely running.

You arrive at the door and fish your keys out from your coat pocket. “Never again,” you say out loud, fumbling with the stubborn lock. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m officially retiring from the dating scene. Maybe I’ll join a convent. Do they still have those?”

You finally win your fight with the door, shoving it open with more force than necessary, the strap of your purse digging into your shoulder. You’re already picturing yourself face-planting onto the couch and eating ice cream as you walk partially through the entryway and further into the apartment. “April, you’re not gonna BELIEVE the total unmitigated disaster that was—”

You don’t even get the full sentence out.

Because your dramatic pronouncement is cut short when you barrel right into a solid wall of … something. Your nose is pressed against a hard, subtly ridged surface. You tilt your head back, and your gaze travels up, up, up to a face that’s, well … green. And reptilian.

He’s currently looking down at you with wide, intelligent hazel eyes behind a pair of very familiar-looking glasses. In his hands, he has what one can only describe as an enormous pair of custom shoes. Looking like he was just going to toss them by the door, you realize dimly, like any normal person. Except he isn’t just any normal person.

“W-what …? Who …?” you stammer as you take a step backward, staring at the shoes before your gaze snaps back up to the towering green man in front of you.

His massive, three-fingered hand is still outstretched, holding the shoes. He’s wearing, well, not much. Aside from a purple bandanna tied around his head and pants with suspenders over his broad back. Wait, you think, squinting at him—before realizing that isn’t his back so much as it is a shell.

“Uh,” he says, hesitant, seeming just as startled by your sudden appearance as you are by his.

It takes a moment to click once you, again, look at the glasses perched on his snout. His reptilian snout. Your brain, already overloaded from your terrible date night, attempts to reboot before it short-circuits. Giant. Green. Person. A turtle? In your apartment. Holding shoes.

Your thoughts grind to a halt after stuttering, unable to process what the hell you’re seeing.

“You’re home early,” April says, appearing from the living room, a nervous smile plastered on her face.

Purple Bandanna looks like a deer caught in headlights. Behind him and April, you register other large, green men. Each of them are wearing different colored bandannas. The one in red, arms crossed, is radiating ‘are you kidding me?’ energy. Orange is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, while the one in blue sighs and shakes his head.

“Early?” you echo, your voice a squeak. Your gaze flits from April’s strained smile to the towering, purple-clad turtle, then to the other three equally impossible beings. “April, there are giant, sentient turtles in our living room!”

The one in orange finally loses his battle and bursts into a snorting laugh, which is quickly stifled by an elbow from the blue one. The red one rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.

“And if you must know,” you continue, the sheer weirdness of the situation temporarily bulldozed by your need to vent, “I’m home because my date was a catastrophic failure of epic proportions. He mansplained the blockchain to me. The blockchain, April. What the hell is a blockchain, anyway?!” You gesture wildly with one hand, knowing you look like a crazy raccoon who’s lost a bar fight.

Purple guy blinks. The blue one takes a hesitant step forward. The red one actually snorts.

“A convent, huh?” Red says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Dramatic much?”

You realize he heard you talking to yourself outside the apartment, and you blush in embarrassment. “It’s a valid life choice!” you retort, though your voice breaks a little. Then, the full weight of the situation crashes back down. “Wait a minute. Who are you guys? And why do you look like … very large anthropomorphic turtles?”

The purple one pushes his glasses up his nose. Again, you notice how his frames match yours. “It’s a … rather convoluted narrative,” he says, his voice still calm, though he shifts his weight again. “We’re friends of April. She lets us hang out here sometimes when … well, when you’re out.”

“Friends she has never, ever, not once in the history of our friendship, mentioned,” you counter, narrowing your mascara-smudged eyes at April, who winces and mumbles a ‘sorry.’

Your gaze, however, can’t help but drift back to the purple-clad turtle. Again, he pushes his glasses further up his nose. There’s a faint flush of a darker green spreading under his skin that you suspect might be the reptilian equivalent of a blush. It’s unexpectedly endearing.

Maybe it’s the way his intelligent hazel eyes, magnified slightly by the lenses, look apologetic and gentle. Or perhaps it’s the novelty of someone so otherworldly looking at you with an expression that isn’t pity, or worse, the glazed-over boredom Chad had projected. He also seems genuinely concerned about your disastrous date, even though you’ve just barged in on whatever secret turtle-hangout was happening.

“Well,” you say, your voice a little shaky but losing some of its earlier despairing edge. “This is certainly a development. April is friends with tall, apparently very polite turtles who have excellent taste in eyewear.” You glance pointedly at Purple’s glasses, then touch your own.

You’ve always had a ridiculous soft spot for guys in glasses. It’s your kryptonite, second only to a well-curated bookshelf.

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “Donatello,” he offers, finally lowering the hand still holding his footwear. “But, uh, Donnie is fine.”

“Donnie,” you repeat, testing the name. It suits him. The blush on his cheeks seems to deepen a fraction.

“Look, I was going to tell you,” April says truthfully. “Eventually. It’s just … a lot.”

“Understatement of the year, April,” you mutter, but your eyes are drawn back to Donnie. He’s set his shoes down now, his posture a little less like a startled woodland creature and more relaxed. He steals another glimpse of you, and there’s a definite spark of interest there in his gaze.

A tiny thrill zips through you. Dating humans hasn’t exactly panned out. It’s been a veritable parade of Chads, Brendans, and a Kevin who thought taxidermy was an appropriate first-date conversation topic. But perhaps the universe has always had other options for you in mind.

“So,” you say, taking a deep breath and trying to gather the scattered remnants of your composure. “Donnie. And, uh …” You gesture vaguely at the other three, who are watching with varying degrees of amusement and exasperation.

“Leonardo, but Leo’s good,” Blue says with a polite nod.

“Raphael. Raph,” the red one grunts, still leaning against the doorframe, though his arms are no longer crossed.

“And I’m Michelangelo! Mikey for short!” Orange says. “We’re brothers, by the way.”

“Right,” you say. “Leo, Raph, Mikey. And Donnie.” You look at Donnie again, and he offers another one of those small, shy smiles that does strange things to your insides.

“So, about that blockchain,” Donnie begins, then seems to catch himself, a flicker of self-consciousness in his eyes. “I mean, if you’re still curious. It’s essentially a decentralized, distributed ledger, which can be quite fascinating from a cryptographic and data structure perspective, though I can see how it might not be an optimal first-date conversation.”

You can’t help it; a laugh escapes you. A real one, not the polite, strained kind you fake with most of your dates. “You know, that’s actually the most sense anyone’s made of it all night.”

Donnie’s blush deepens again, and this time, there’s definitely a pleased glint in his eyes. April lets out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief. Even Raph cracks a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.

“So,” you say, feeling a bit more like yourself now, “do you guys hang out here often?”

“We try not to impose,” Leo replies. “But April’s hospitality is generous.”

“Generous enough to harbor four secret turtles,” you muse, then look at April. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

She throws her hands up in mock surrender. “What can I say? They’re good company. Mostly.” She shoots a pointed look at Raph, who just shrugs.

Donnie clears his throat, drawing your attention back to him. He’s fidgeting with the strap of some kind of tech-y satchel you hadn’t noticed before, slung across his shell. “Actually,” he says, “we were just about to order pizza. If … if you’re not too traumatized by your recent culinary experience to partake?”

Pizza. The universal comfort food. The thought of sharing it with Donnie and his equally extraordinary brothers suddenly sounds infinitely more appealing than a solitary tub of ice cream and a vow of celibacy.

“Traumatized? Donnie, I think tonight significantly recalibrated my trauma threshold.” You shoot him a smile. “And pizza sounds amazing. Especially if its intricacies are not explained via a PowerPoint on its market liquidity.” You still can’t believe one of your dates actually brought a laptop with him to show you a damn PowerPoint, of all things.

Sometimes, you still think romance is dead.

Donnie laughs, a full, rumbling sound that vibrates pleasantly in the entryway. “No PowerPoints, I promise. Though I do have some interesting data on optimal cheese-to-sauce ratios, if you’re interested.”

“Save it for the second date, Don,” Raph calls out, earning a frown from Donnie and a snicker from Mikey.

Your cheeks flush again. It’s a pleasant sensation this time, a far cry from the humiliated heat brought on by Chad’s cheapness or your own dramatic pronouncements outside the door. “I think I could handle some data on cheese-to-sauce ratios,” you say, your voice a little breathless.

Mikey whoops. “Alright! Pizza party! I call dibs on the first slice with extra pepperoni!”

April, looking significantly less stressed now that the initial shock has worn off, claps her hands together. “Okay, then! Pizza it is. My treat. Consider it an apology for the delayed introductions. And for all the Chads.”

You laugh, feeling the last of the evening’s tension drain away, which is replaced by an almost giddy sense of excitement. Giving up on dating? You must have gone temporarily insane. Again, you look at Donnie.

No way you’re giving up now.

Especially if it involves matching glasses and a brilliant, kind-eyed turtle.

[oozedninjas]

Spring fleeting

A/N: Fucking rude of me not to have fed my pretty girlies in this much while. In compensation, I offer you: a mating season special!!! You can shoot in a prompt and I'll turn it into a short smut ;) ily!!

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / Smut / NSFW / edging, orgasm denial, dom!turtles, oral sex / General verses / Mutant guys are 25-29 y/o and they're suffering from spring heat!

Leo doesn't want to breathe because if he does he might get carried away by your scent. He watches from a safe distance never leaving sight of your neck and shoulders. Fuck, he wants to bite them, suck on them, lick a stripe over your pulse line that would cut your breath sharply. Shit, he wants you to hold from the upper end of his shell, begging. Before he registers he's calling your name. Let him lure you elsewhere, yeah?

Raph loves fucking you stupid. Your eyes closed and gaped mouth have him on the verge of coming. Words scarcely coherent enough to moan for more. He's balls deep in you, aching to fill you up once more. But Raph edges himself, just for the bliss of numbing everything away with each crashing orgasm. 

He trembles inside you, cum dripping from your abused cunt as he thrusts. Fuck you love him, you're crazy about him, and he just grins, amused at your stupid failed attempts to communicate it.

Donatello's knowledge of each sensitive part in your body borders on mean when he uses it like this. From your neck to your back, to your lower half. He's held you still for what feels like ages, nibbling, marking, and kissing the bruise after. But none of what he's done equals the cruel way he's sucking your clit: just enough to make your back arch, but never quite granting release. 

Begging wouldn't suffice, it wasn't about that. It was about him showing you how fucking good he could make you feel if you let him, how hard you could come just by his expert tongue. And shit, who are you kidding? You fucking adore it.

Mikey loves how hot you look riding his cock. He's got the best of views! Everything in you is perfect. He reaches up, palming every bit of skin he can get his hands on, squeezing, pinching, scratching. He loves it when his touch makes you weak enough to lose the rhythm, seemingly tumbling over his plastron, finally giving out. 

He's softer when he's had enough, and brings your mouth to his gently, big hands covering your back, pushing you down to his chest before he thrusts up. He reaches that sweet spot so easily like this, and your clit rubs so deliciously over the lower part of his plastron. Come on, don't hold back, you don't gotta do nothing, just relax.

[raisin-shell]

19 seconds of the brothers slapping Leo and being smart asses with each other.

[sweeneydino]

Dumdums

More redraws!

If you want me to redraw a scene with these designs just send it in asks or tag me and ill do it…some time…

They are pretty fun

[livltmntl]

THEY GLOW THEY GLOW IN THE FUCKING DARK

[hotheadedhero]

*peeks in here*

*walks away to check if you do bayverse*

*return*

The bay bois getting an s/o who will occasionally will randomly be cuddling and then... *Affectionate bite* then letting go and telling them they love them.

AN: As an affectionate biter myself, I gotcha babes ;)

Affectionate Biting

Bay Turtles x Reader

Warnings: very mildly suggestive, an insomniac trying to grammar <3

Leonardo

The first time you oh-so casually bit him and smiled afterwards as if it was nothing had him going for a spin. Confused is the prominent word to describe how he was feeling at the time. The action was just so unprompted. He couldn't figure out why you felt the need to do something like that, nor how it could be seen as an act of love.

He's learnt over time that it's an unavoidable urge for you. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to bite him for whatever reason you deem necessary. Leo is all too aware of this by now and may or may not use it to his advantage.

"For every hour we're out tonight, I'll give you a free bite. No questions asked, okay?"

These are terms you can comply with. He knows how much you miss him when he's gone, so setting up this ultimatum is an effective way of letting him go on patrol more easily.

Raphael

Being with you has involved its fair share of revelations and discoveries. There's at least a handful of things he's become savvy to whilst being with you but the random biting is one of the more bizarre ones.

Actions speak louder than words and they always mean the most to him but biting? What's up with that? Humans are weird. That's the conclusion he's come to. Even now in this very moment, you've taken a hold of his wrist whilst curled up in bed together.

"What are you, a cat or something? Quit it."

Of course, he's only joking. It's just so he can see your tongue poke out and your nose scrunch up in the cute way he likes. Even if he did seriously mean for you to stop, he doubts you would. You live by your own rules when it comes to these things. And, sure, you can bite him if you like. Just as long as you expect to get bitten back.

Donatello

It may catch him by surprise from time to time but only because you do it in the most random of situations. Whilst he's working away and you're sitting in his lap, you'll just latch onto the closest part of him you can access. He might jump if he's in the zone but it's never an issue.

Regardless of it being a problem or not, you've had your own curiosities about why you have such a primal impulse to chomp down on your boyfriend. Luckily, Donnie being as knowledgeable as ever has the answers.

"... the desire to pseudo-bite or squeeze anything we find extremely cute is actually a neurochemical reaction. 'Cute aggression' isn't motivated by vicious intent. Instead, scientists think-"

He halts on his words, blinks out of his matter-of-fact mode, and gazes down at you. All the while, you have his forearm locked between your teeth. Your attempt to smile coyly against his skin is adorable, and he smiles back before continuing his explanation.

Michelangelo

He won't ask any questions. In all honesty, he loves it. Although, there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding the first couple of times you went to take a nip at him. Let's just say he thought you were trying to get him in the mood. Can't blame a guy for assuming his lover is a little freaky in the sheets.

Having such a strong force overcome you is something he understands, though. It's like him when it comes to pulling a fast one over his brothers. You can bite him whenever you want to if that's what you feel you need to do. Even if you turned into a zombie, he'd still let you.

"And then we could be like, zombie lovers roaming the streets together."

Mikey holds his arms out, hands dangling as he playfully groans like the undead. You aren't entirely sure how the conversation developed like that but it's cute nonetheless. Hey, he's just being honest. He loves you that much.

[mishka-o]

Some silly sketches with my self insert <3🧡

(Raph would def use you as a spare weight)

[mushroomgrenade]

Nobody asked but Im delivering.

I dusted off my red bubble and uploaded almost 100 new designs for you turtle people. Grab them here!

And as a reminder, sticker sheets are always still available, grab them here!

⭐Please help reblog! Theyre super helpful and I appreciate it!⭐

[xartisticmdx]

So does anyone still like the Bayverse Ninja Turtles?

Hot take: I actually enjoy the Bayverse Ninja Turtles. Ever since it came out of course. And I always wanted to make Bayverse versions of my tmnt ocs. I love it to death.

[theturtlelovers]

Raph is the kind of turtle who tenderly brushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear and kissing your temple, all while he's pistoning into you with such intensity that your cries of pleasure are unavoidable.

[oozedninjas]

Any Leo fucking you when he's needy honestly

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / NSFW / Smutish / Leo is late 20's to early 30's / general verses

Needy!Leo loves it when you breathe into his mouth, panting as he thrusts into you at just the right pace. Fuck, he missed you so much.

Needy!Leo loves it when you close your legs around his head when he goes down on you—losing his mind when you tug the banana, rubbing yourself to his face desperate to reach your peak. So fucking delicious, he drinks it all down.

Needy!Leo is crazy about your moans, he adores hearing how good he makes you feel.

Needy!Leo loves holding you so close to his plastron you can barely breathe, but god, your clit feels amazing grinding against his lower belly, that you almost don't care.

Needy!Leo stays inside after he's fucked his cum deep in your real good, slowly catching his breath as he holds you close. You're good for him, so soft and warm—what do you mean you can't breathe? This is no time for air, it's time for cuddles.

[raisin-shell]

Maybe… just maybe we all grew out of a phase. I won’t say grow up because it was never about being grown. It was about escape. What, where, why we were escaping was irrelevant. Whatever that phase was…. Holy fuck it was good. I know the Bayverse fandom is very slim and it literally hurts to watch it crumble but I was one of the fortunate ones who got to see it in the height of its glory days. To my Bayverse peeps, I love you all so very much.

[tmntaucompetition]

One and all from across TMNT Tumblr, I present to you….

THE TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES ALTERNATE UNIVERSES COMPETITION! (2025!)

This competition will throw hands with ANY tmnt iteration AU, and I mean ANY! 2012, 2003, Rise, WHATEVER! THEY COUNT! Crossovers are counted as well (i.e Ghost in the Shell and Two Souls)!

Submissions are open and will be open for a week or two at most! Submit YOUR blorbos today to see them win the ultimate honor!

BUT you may ask, “WHAT’S THIS YEAR’S THEME?”

GENRES OF FANTASY!

FOUR ROUNDS

ROUND 1: High Fantasy - Your classic go-to when you think of fantasy! Dragons, knights, kings and queens, adventures!

ROUND 2: Fairy Tales - Your bedtime stories as a child! Mary had a Little Lamb, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the Pied Piper, Puss in Boots…so many to choose!

ROUND 3: Magical Girl/Boy/GN - (THIS COUNTS AS FANTASY) ANIME! Full anime mode vibe, harness the powers of…whatever and defeat your evil foes with cool transformations and awesome style!

ROUND 4: ITS A SURPRISSSSSE :)

RULES

IMPORTANT: If the au revolves around dark/heavy topics and themes, please list those in the form.

Be kind to one another! Don’t harass anyone over this fun little competition.

Don’t flood creators inboxes! Especially if they don’t want to be apart of this competition!

All in all, be respectful. Please 😭

Any questions can be asked via inbox!

This years competition will revolve around the top 32 AUS submitted, and will have single elimination.

HAVE FUN EVERYONE!

Official discord server: https://discord.gg/zUvEEJAj66

[sweeneydino]

Dums pt.2

Don’t think about it.

…they look like squash-

[hotheadedhero]

Preoccupied (18+)

AN: Is Bay Raph constantly on my mind? Yes. Should you be on his mind constantly? DAMN STRAIGHT! I need not say more 😘

(NOTE: I had to delete the last post and reupload because for some reason it wasn't coming up on Tumblr under any of the tags. If the world doesn't need my smut just tell me now 😭)

Raphael x Reader

All characters are aged up

Warnings: NSFW, smutty content, 18+, MDNI, swears (though that's probably the least of your concerns in a fic like this), dirty thoughts, bordering on obsessive, masturbation, angsty because, damn it, I can't help myself, this got weirdly biblical for some reason, idk how to tag nsfw content, an insomniac trying to grammar, my first official smut so apologies if it stinks :'D

You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being. 

Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.

He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…

You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.

Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.

Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”

“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”

Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.

In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.

As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-

The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.

Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.

There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.

Shit.

He remembers how this all started now.

It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.

“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.

The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.

You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."

"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.

That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.

Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.

Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.

He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.

This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.

A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.

He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.

In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.

The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.

Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.

Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.

He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.

Why can’t it be so easy?

That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.

If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.

He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.

It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.

When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.

One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.

He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.

This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.

You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.

He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.

This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.

It never is.

No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.

You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.

This is kind of an idea I coined off of @moxfirefly (called Obsesión on AO3) when I realised the similarities halfway into writing, so go read that!! It's a good one yo 🙏